Just hope
by Latanya Kassidy
Summary: One-shot songfic. "After all, he didn't hate Hank. Not completely." Michael abuse.


Disclaimer: I don't own Roswell or the characters or Snow Patrol or anything…at all 

A/N: Hey guys. So this is another Michael abuse story, set before ID (obviously). It's also my second Roswell songfic that features a song by Snow Patrol. What can I say? I'm just obsessed. The song is called "Whatever's Left" and its pretty cool. I totally recommend the Snow Patrol cd.

Ok, I've been thinking about adding to my other Roswell fic "As if You Have a Choice" It was supposed to be a one-shot but I just realized that I kinda left in on a cliff (which isn't very nice). I've had requests for more but I'm not sure if I should continue. So, basically I need you guys to read the fic and let me know whether or not you'd be interested in reading more. It's my sneaky way of getting reviews (lol) Thanks and enjoy the story!

L.K.

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_It's a feeling I've had many times before_

_I can't hold the fort so don't give me more_

He could feel the angry eyes bearing down on him. The sensation sent chills down his spine as he curled in on himself. He gasped at the intense pain that shot through his body as he moved. He was hurt badly this time. He wasn't sure how much more he could take before the abuse broke him completely. He didn't mean physically. He knew it was far too late to worry about broken bones. No, he was worried about breaking down emotionally. The abuse had been getting even more violent in the past few months and it was beginning to wear on his mind as well as his body. He trembled as he anticipated the next blow. His only warning was an incoherent curse before he was kicked in the chest. As the pain ripped him apart, his mind simply shut down.

_I struggle and sweat when I'm wide awake_

_When I know I'm fine, I'm not used to fine_

Michael shot straight out of bed, breathing hard. His eyes were wide and frantic as he searched the room for his foster father. Moonlight filtered in through his small window, casting shadows on Michael's bedroom walls. The shadows took frightening forms, yet could not find Hank hiding among them. Nor did he hear the drunken curses that had been filling the room moments before. The silence of the night was overwhelming. It seemed to fill his ears until all he could hear was white noise. He checked his body for the wounds that had been giving him so much pain. They were gone. It was just a dream. A very violent and frighteningly realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless. He shuddered as the images plagued his mind. It had seemed so real.

Michael sighed, and ran a shaky hand through his spiky hair. He silently chastised himself for getting so freaked out over a stupid dream. He hadn't had nightmares since he was a little kid. Since then, he had forced himself to work past his childish fears. Fearing Hank would simply give the man more power over Michael. He wouldn't allow that. Hank might be able to abuse him physically, but Michael worked hard to shield his mind from his foster father's hard words. He had built his stonewall to keep himself sane. He wouldn't let Hank break him.

_It's the same thing again_

_But it could become a problem if_

_We don't deal with it now_

_And you blast off on another rant_

Michael was just lying back down when he heard a crash outside his door. His entire body tensed as he awaited Hank's arrival. To tell the truth, Michael wasn't really sure why he was so tense. The whole thing was rather routine. Just about every night Hank would stumble into Michael's room for a "visit." He was always sloshed, but not always violent. At times he would simply talk on and on about how much he hated work or what happened that night at the bar. His favorite topic, of course, was just what a burden Michael was. He seemed to enjoy belittling Michael as much as beating him.

However, things were not always that…pleasant. When drunk, Hank angered very easily. If Michael wasn't careful he would end up doing something dumb that set off the older man. When this happened Hank held nothing back. If he was in a full rage, he was not careful about how much he hurt Michael, or if the bruises were visible. The only thing on his mind was punishing this "ungrateful bastard." Michael, on the other hand, did hold back. He could have easily stopped Hank from hurting him. Just one blast with his powers and Hank would be down for the count. But in all honesty, Michael was afraid. He was afraid of what would happen if he used his powers. He wasn't able to control them as well as Max and Isabel. He could easily kill Hank by accident. Not only would that expose Michael and his powers to the FBI, but also he would have committed murder.

_I've not opened my mouth_

_Can you read my mind so easily?_

_As the madness sets in_

_You must know that I'll follow you_

Michael's thoughts were interrupted when his bedroom door crashed open. Hank stormed inside, swaying slightly. He stopped when he got to Michael's bedside and just stared at the boy for a moment. Michael wasn't sure how to react. Hank usually acted immediately, either by beating the shit out of him or babbling incoherently. This was different. Michael idly wondered if Hank had finally lost his mind. He seemed entranced as he just stared at his foster son, who sat tensely before him. Michael was genuinely worried about the man. After all, he didn't hate Hank. Not completely. Yes, he wanted a family that would love and protect him. Yes, he regretted hiding from the headlights all those years ago. But in a way, he was grateful. Michael would not be who he was if he hadn't experienced so much at such a young age.

Not all of it was bad either. Hank was not always violent towards him. At times he was even civil. He may not have taught Michael how to ride a bike or throw a baseball, but he did tell him a lot about women and cars. Michael wasn't much of a mechanic, but at least he knew how the engine worked. He had even worked on the truck with Hank one time. Oddly enough it was one of the best days of his life. He had been able to forget everything else, all of the abuse and alien shit, long enough to spend some "quality time" with his foster father. Michael wished that Hank would spend less time drinking and more time working on the truck. Maybe then he wouldn't be such a jerk.

As though reading his thoughts, Hank launched himself at Michael. As the abuse began, Michael curled into the fetal position and tried to control his breathing. He pulled his mind away from the violence, away from the curses and insults Hank was hurling at him, and buried himself in the memory of fixing the truck. It was sad, but Michael lived for that memory. It was one of the only things that kept him grounded when things got bad. It gave him hope, although he'd never admit it. Michael always said that hope was pointless. He'd make some pessimistic comment about how hope just let you down time after time. Yet, that wasn't really how he felt. Merely words to keep people at a distance. Words that would keep people from getting too close. In reality, Michael's heart was filled with hope. He hoped that Hank would be kind to him again. He hoped that he, Max, and Izzy would soon find their home. He just hoped. It was all he had left in his cold, harsh life. His hope kept him alive. And as long as he remained in Roswell, Michael would continue hoping that Hank would love him.

_A sudden movement and a broken limb_

_The patches are there to show where I'm hit_

A stabbing pain brought Michael out of his reverie. His right arm had broken in the assault. The pain was nearly unbearable, yet Hank did not stop. He kept kicking Michael until the boy couldn't keep track of the blows. Chest. Arm. Chest. Stomach. Stomach. It just continued on and on. Michael just prayed that Hank was sane enough to stay away from his face. He was sure to be covered in bruises, but he could cover them as long as his face wasn't damaged. It would be difficult to hide his broken arm, but he would think of something. After all, this wasn't the first time it had happened.

'Better an arm than a leg' Michael thought grimly. If things were too obvious he could just stay home from school the next day. It wasn't as though it was unusual for him to skip class.

_My fault is it now well that's news to me_

_Curled and joyless we try once again_

Through the haze of pain, Michael recognized Hank's usual speech. He was telling his foster son how he deserved this abuse. He ranted on telling Michael that it was his fault, that he brought the pain upon himself. Michael caught the terms "useless orphan" and "ungrateful son-of-a-bitch." As the pain began to pull him under, Michael thought about Hank's words. Was this really his fault? He was practically Hank's slave. He cooked, cleaned, did laundry, grocery shopping, and every other chore that Hank threw at him. He did all this while Hank sat in his boxers, drinking beer in front of the TV. Michael thought he did a lot to earn his keep. He couldn't remember doing anything terrible that would warrant such a punishment. Yet, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps he'd been some horrible person in a previous life. It wasn't inconceivable. He was an alien after all. Maybe he was being punished for crimes he couldn't remember committing.

Hank delivered a final kick to Michael's head and left the room. Michael's vision blurred as he tried to open his eyes. He would definitely have bruises on his face the following morning. He sighed. It looked as though his hopes had been dashed once again. Hank didn't love him and it wasn't likely that he ever would. Michael curled deeper into himself refusing to let his tears fall. Darkness was creeping along the edges of his vision, threatening to swallow him up. Michael finally gave up the struggle and drifted into unconsciousness.

'Tomorrow,' he thought. 'Tomorrow will be different.'


End file.
